Cato's Kisses
by clearblueskies
Summary: 'It's Clove's birthday, and for once, it's going well. So far, she hasn't been yelled at, attacked, or given her yearly birthday present. Well, the last one did seem to good to be true, considering she's stuck on a train with Cato.' Clove thinks she kindasorta understands what love is. Love is Cato, love is Cato's kisses.


**Cato's Kisses:**

Clove usually hates birthdays, but this one in particular seems to be going quite well.

One, she is on her way to dinner, in the train speeding her towards a chance of eternal glory through bloody murder. Two, it is not raining, and the sky is clear and teeming with stars, from what she can see from inside the stuffy little train. Three, she hasn't had her father ask about whether or not she has managed to defeat seven opponents at once. Three, up till now, she has received not a single wound, not even a paper cut or a 'stray' arrow from Some Other Stupid Trainee's bow, and Four, she hasn't been kissed by Some Other Stupid Trainee.

Well, she thinks, as she turns around, reaching for the knife she stole from the kitchen. Considering the fact that Some Other Stupid Trainee is here withher, the last one _did_ seem too good to be true.

Whether it is the sudden flash of something gold as the figure steps into the light or the familiar voice, Clove pauses, and that (_he_) is her undoing.

Before she knows it, she is pressed up against the window, and her knife is lying useless on the floor, and she can feel cool glass on her back and warm breath on her face. "Cato, what the _fuck_ are you doing?" She hisses, and he laughs at the way her breath hitches.

"Wondering," he says softly, letting his lips brush against hers. "Would you like to be my ally?"

"Fuck off, it's my birthday," she mutters, and slides her tongue into his mouth. He tastes like wine, _probably drunk, the bastard_, and makes a surprised, pleased, vulnerable little sound that does strange things to her heart, and kisses her like this is their last chance at anything they could ever be. (_it is_)

Cato is like his kisses, arrogant, hard, demanding. He is like her knife, strong, wild, bloodthirsty. He is like her, deadly, determined, desperate. (_for victory, he told her last night, and Clove looks into his eyes and knows that he is not exactly lying)_

"No more birthdays for you, Clove, no more birthdays kisses."

"Don't need 'em. Just- unh- just you." _(and it's crazy, how the feel of his tongue running along the delicate roof of her mouth and his teeth nipping at her lower lip can make her lose her filter say things like this, all the while kissing, pushing, pulling, biting, licking, fingers digging into her back-)_

He laughs again, he is always laughing at her. He laughs at her inability to tell the difference between nightshade and blueberries, he laughs at her when his laughing makes her knife miss her target and land in the dirt, and then he laughs at the way the other large trainee sprawls in the dust, clutching at his nose, when Cato punches him for laughing at her.

"Do me a favour," she says, pulling away.

She knows the words before they leave his mouth, feels the rumble of his chest. They are cool and wary, just as they should be, "What favour?"

She considers her words, and wonders if they are friends. She thinks they are. _(at least, he shares his arrows with her when hers break and she lets him use her as a crutch when he sprains his ankle and on each of her birthdays, he gives her a soft peck on her lips as she pretends to recoil in disgust and on his birthday, she hugs him tight and smiles only slightly shyly)_

She considers her words, and wonders if she loves him. She thinks she does. _(at least, her stomach explodes with butterflies every time he touches her and when he kissed another girl she went and beat him up and wouldn't speak to him until he explained to her that it was a dare, and she has never hated him even when he killed her pet falcon)_

She considers her words, and wonders if he loves her- whether somewhere between their disastrous first meeting involving mud and shoving and arguments about whether girls or boys were better, and standing on that podium in front of a roaring crowd, smiles on their faces because _yes they should be happy this is what they have been waiting for their whole lives_- he might, possibly, have fallen in love with her.

"What favour?" says Cato's voice again, shut off and unreadable. _(but not to Clove, never to Clove)_

"I-" Clove starts, and feels his fingers dig tighter into the slim arm he is holding.

Is she actually going to say it?

Old Clove would never say something like that.

Old Clove, who hates everyone and everything that breathes. _(except maybe the boy who lets her lean on him and play at killing him on the same day)_

Old Clove, who _likes_ the way the blood looks, red pearls on the green, green grass. _(except maybe that's because it's the colour of the sweater his grandmother gets for him- and forces him to wear- every winter)_

Old Clove, who never wonders about something as ridiculous as _love_. _(except maybe when she does)_

She wonders what Cato would think of New Clove and her thoughts on love.

Old Cove isn't that different from New Clove, she thinks.

"What bloody favour?" the voice says again, and now it is annoyed.

Clove elbows him lightly in the ribs.

"Promise me that we will be the last two," she says, finally. "Promise me that you won't let anyone but me kill you."

He laughs, short and bitter. _(which works, because she is short, and he is always bitter, but wait, what is she thinking and is she thinking this because his eyes are wide and grey and look as scared as she has ever seen them?) _"Promise me that you won't let anyone else but me kill _you_," he echoes, and Clove thinks she feels him pull her a little closer, hold her a little tighter.

"Sabotage!" she says, in the hope that he won't notice the inexplicable, _weak_ tears beading at the corner of her eyes. "You're trying to cut off circulation to my lower arm so that they have to amputate it and I won't be able to kick your sorry ass!"

"Fuck you, Clove," he chokes out, and cups her face with his hands. And for a moment, he is soft and gentle and stupendously like the little boy she met ten years ago, when she was taller than him. For a moment, he runs his fingers thorough her hair and lets her tongue caress the delicate pink underside of his lip. For a moment, there is a noisy silence filled with the sound of their breathing. _(like raindrops on leaves, she thinks, before telling herself to just shut the hell up)_

For a moment, nothing exists but them.

For a moment, Clove thinks that love is simple, love is easy.

For a moment, Clove lets herself be weak and stupid, and forgets that neither of them promised anything.

"Happy birthday," he says, and the moment is over.

"Let's go for dinner," she says, and she knows what love is.

He takes her hand and squeezes it before placing it back at her side. _  
_

Love is not simple, love is not easy. Love is arrogant and hard and demanding, strong and wild and bloodthirsty, deadly and determined and desperate. _(but love can also be quiet and sweet and wine, young and clever and invulnerable, beautiful and breathtaking and brave)_

Love is Cato, love is Cato's kisses.

**_A/N: So... uh, first time writing for the HG fandom, I hope this was decent. I majorly ship Clato (and yes, I was enraged when the movie made it Glimmer), however, I noticed that there was a lack of Clato fanfiction, and even less where they aren't drastically OOC. So I really really hope that I didn't butcher the characters like most people seem to do... Tell me if I did? :)_**


End file.
